Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, consensually non-consensual (CNC), or non-consensual sex or scenarios.
Special thanks to
Andrew1968
,
kenjisato
, and
thegoofyproofyreader
for their editing prowess, and for offering suggestions that ultimately improved my story.
Sunday, 8:15 am
"More coffee?"
"I'm good, thanks."
This simple exchange held so much tension, for both of us. To an outsider, it probably wouldn't have registered as more than the usual breakfast pleasantries, but for members of our family, the kind of atmosphere present at the table that morning was clear and familiar, and, of course, never spoken about.
My two sisters and I had grown up with this tension always around the corner, and we all had an intuitive ability to navigate it, but this morning was different. It was one thing when I was a teenager, and the whole family shared the house. Back then, one simply adjusted to the environment and never really questioned it. It was, after all, the way we were raised, and we didn't know much else. Now, two-and-a-half decades later, the dysfunction of it all was clear as day to me. I was raising children of my own by this point, so I had been forced to confront my own upbringing, to not pass this strange behaviour on to my kids.
You see, my mother always did this. When something was uncomfortable, or if there was a conflict, you could always count on her to pretend as if nothing was wrong. On occasion, she might, at most, acknowledge the issue, but her general behaviour was always certain — she would deflect by talking about other things; basically pretend as if nothing problematic had ever happened. My mother's way of dealing with such situations was so ingrained in me that I still had trouble confronting her. With my wife, children, friends, and co-workers, I never had any problems putting all the cards on the table and faced any disagreements head on. But with my mother, I was trained since childhood to accept her gaslighting, and go along with her pretence.
It still worked. The uneasy feeling in my gut was all too familiar, but I felt I had to try to overcome it. I wasn't able to look her in the eyes, and could only muster a feeble attempt at confrontation.
"Mom, shouldn't we at least talk about—"
"I can't remember you ever having just one cup of coffee," she interrupted. "You always have at least two."
"I almost never have two," I tried, sensing already how fruitless it was.
"Well, you should, now that you have a long drive ahead of you. Besides, I'm your mother, and I know what is best for you."
That last sentence almost made me shiver — she didn't seem to think at all about how she had used those very same words the night before, and my attempt to broach the subject had quickly turned into bickering about coffee.
"I really only need one cup," I said.
Ignoring my answer completely, she stood up and promptly refilled my cup. She set it down next to my half-eaten sandwich, then stretched her arms and yawned lightly. Her acting wasn't very convincing, but I understood the point — we were not confronting anything.
"You know, I have a few things to take care of today," she said. "I think I need to start getting ready, so I'll head upstairs and have a shower."
She put a hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the forehead, just like she used to do before sending me off to school. The dismissive signal was clear to me.
"Besides, I'm sure Helen and the kids want you home soon. I want the front door locked while I'm in the shower though, so could you use the back door when you leave?"
"No problem," I said. Trying to confront her didn't work; I quickly fell into my old habits and humoured her. With her back already turned, she left the room not waiting for me. As a definitive punctuation to the conversation, she said a few final words as she disappeared up the stairs.
"Drive safely, dear. So nice to spend the morning with you. Tell Helen and the kids I said hi, and thank you again for all your help." Her tone was sweet and dismissive.
So, I hastily packed my overnight bag and left through the back yard, as promised. As I sat in my car and turned the ignition, the whole thing felt surreal. I had experienced mom's gaslighting before, and she had avoided countless uncomfortable conversations that way. This time, she almost had me doubting that last night had ever happened. But I couldn't deny it, not even to myself. How could I just ignore the fact that I had had sex with my own mother just a few hours earlier?
Saturday, 1:20 pm
I pulled up into the driveway of my childhood home, where my mom had lived on her own for a decade or so. My younger sisters and I had moved out long ago, and my parents had divorced shortly after becoming a two-person household again. I was still not sure what the deciding factor had been, but I knew from experience what a challenge my mother could be. My dad had coped as long as we were a family under the same roof, but once the three of us had left, I guessed he no longer had any incentive to remain in a relationship where conflicts weren't discussed, much less resolved.
A year or so later, he had remarried and seemed much more content. My parents still saw each other now and then, mostly at their grandchildren's birthday parties, and the vibe between them was always polite and pleasant, but just a tad resentful at the same time. My mother had almost eagerly slipped into a role of victimhood, and she was always quick to complain about spending her life alone in her house, although she never took any steps to make a change. She had dated a few men, but nothing serious had ever come of it. My sisters and I were fairly certain that mom wasn't too interested in being part of someone else's life; she only wanted someone to come into hers.
